


The Box

by Choice_or_Decision



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguity, Gen, One Shot, Other, Past Relationship(s), Tag Averse Author, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 13:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choice_or_Decision/pseuds/Choice_or_Decision
Summary: As if it were a foci by which life around the hut was centered, as if placed for only his eyes to see, the box sat on a shelf on the opposite wall.It was certainly nothing special.A simple wooden box of oak with an engraving across the sides and lid. Nothing too fancy for the simple old box, just a few wisps that belied a pattern; just enough to encourage a couple peasants to buy in a summer of fancy and richness of life. And, one would assume, just enough to rip apart and burn in a winter of cold and curse.Except the box was still there.





	The Box

He looked over the valley, overgrown and modest as it was. He should have been expecting this, it was certainly a perfect fit.

The woods around him, a blend of green leaves and bushes with the occasional needled branches of pine, were humming with sound and life. He tapped his staff to the ground and sent a quick blessing to the soil. It was more than healthy now of course, but you never knew when the odd winter’s curse came through even the most modest and peaceful of places.

The faint creak of a door sounded in his ears, and he watched in the pre-dawn light as the Other came out to start the day’s chores. Tending the garden, preparing the firewood, taking water from the well, feeding the wildlife the Other had managed to tame, it was all part of a schedule that looked so familiar, yet all the more foreign for it.

He ought to leave. This was as far as he would allow himself. As far as his weakness had taken him.

He forced himself to look toward the Other’s home once more, all rough cobblestone walls and dilapidated wood boughs, perhaps a work in progress or a practice in modest living. Through a small window he spotted a few of the essentials.

A sewing kit was lying on a small table near the corner of a bed. Bits and bobs lying about, too small to ascertain from the distance he kept himself. None of these things held his attention as they were mere replacements, the originals lost to time. However, there was one item in the modest little stone hut that surprised him.

As if it were a foci by which life around the hut was centered, as if placed for only his eyes to see, the box sat on a shelf on the opposite wall.

It was certainly nothing special.

A simple wooden box of oak with an engraving across the sides and lid. Nothing too fancy for the simple old box, just a few wisps that belied a pattern; just enough to encourage a couple peasants to buy in a summer of fancy and richness of life. And, one would assume, just enough to rip apart and burn in a winter of cold and curse.

Except the box was still there.

A slight shift of his feet, and that was all it took.

The enchanting eyes of the Other locked on his form. The Other had an empty bucket in hand, either recently returned from the local well or finally moving out to make the trip.

The Other climbed up the hill toward him, surprise clear on their face.

“Welcome, traveler!” The Other glanced about him, and soon realized he was alone. “Who are you and what brings you here to my home? Not many travelers pass through this place.”

“My apologies,” he replied solemnly, the words rough on his tongue. “I am a traveling sorcerer without home or hearth. I managed to find this valley to take in the sights before moving on once more.”

The Other softened, and he knew at once that he should deny the offer.

“Perhaps you could stand to stay for a bit longer. At least until midday? You must have stories to tell, and when was the last time you enjoyed a warm meal prepared properly without a hint of magic?”

This was as far as he would allow himself to go, certainly he deserved some closure, after all. This was as far as his weakness would take him.

So he walked beside the Other as they moved along the trail to the Other’s well.

“Do you enchant?” The Other asked.

He blinked, startled. “What?” he asked in a whisper, memories suddenly and inevitably rushing forth. Images, feelings, light and dark _,_ flashing blindingly before his eyes. His even steps halted.

They had reached the end of the trail, now, and the Other leant for the bit of rope to haul the bucket back up.

“Do you do any enchanting?” the Other repeated as he turned back to face him, adjusting their grip. The Other quickly motioned to his staff.

He shuttered his expression and looked over the Other. Dust and the odd leaf in the Other’s tangled hair, dirtied and worn clothes, and with leather boots that were more mend than leather. But he had never seen the Other look more content.

“For a price. One I doubt you could ever match exactly.”

“Ah, so you do,” the Other stated as the two began walking back down the trail. “Have you ever done anything extraordinary?”

“Yes,” he said, because the words kept slipping out. “It was my greatest error.”

The Other tilted their head and looked him over. “What went wrong?”

“It was the doing itself that stands as erring. There can be no other justification.”

“Ah, that sounds serious.” The other set the bucket down on the base of an old, cut tree stump that stood between them. It might have been oak. “What did you do?”

“I stole something.”

“Did you break it?”

“No, I did something much worse. I returned it.”

The Other gave a disbelieving laugh. “How could returning something eventually be worse than not at all?”

“There are some things that ought not be stolen.”

“But you returned it, yes? How could that be so unforgivable?”

“When it so entirely defines a person and that which they hold dear. When it is taken in another’s greatest time of need.”

The Other grew solemn. “What happened?”

He should leave, ought not open these wounds long left to time. But he knew that a good story would make the Other happy, and the Other deserves this as much as he does not.

This was as far as he would allow himself. This was as far as his weakness would take him. Afterwards, he will leave.

“Well, it all starts like this: once upon a time,” and as he started the story, he tapped his staff to the ground, and bubbles of illusion expanded outward from nothing, glowing as iridescent fireflies, then converged again to form shapes and new colors. He had always been the best teller of stories, especially the ones close to heart.


End file.
